We gagged and bound the sturdy Tibetans, using torchlight sparingly. One of them struggled a lot; but the other was still. Petrie seemed to have achieved a classic knockout. Then we dragged our captives down into the shadow of the hollow; and Nayland Smith and I clothed ourselves in those hot, stuffy, camel-hair garments.
'Remember the sign,' he rapped--'Si Fan!... then the formal Moslem salute, '
'Good enough! But these fellows prob- ably talked Chinese.... '
'So do I!' he rapped. 'Leave that to me.'
He turned to Weymouth. 'Your job is to raise a party inside half an hour. Off you go! Good luck, Petrie. I count on you, Weymouth.'
But when a thousand and one other things are effaced-- including that difficult parting --I shall always retain my memories of the moment, when Nayland Smith and I, wearing the cowled robes of the monks, approached that iron-studded door.
My companion was a host in himself; his splendid audacity stimulated. I thought, as he raised his fist and beat seven times upon the dun-bleached wood, that even if this adven- ture should conclude the short tale of my life, yet it would not have been ill-spent since I had met and been judged worthy to work with Sir Denis Nayland Smith.
Chapter Seventh
KALI
Almost immediately the door opened.
Conscious of the fact that our hoods were practically our only disguise, that neither of us possessed a single Mongol characteristic, I lowered my head apprehensively, glancing up into a pair of piercing eyes which alternately regarded my companion and myself.
The keeper of the door was a tall, emaciated Chinaman!
'Si Fan,' said Nayland Smith, and performed the salutation.
'Si Fan,' the doorkeeper replied and indi- cated that he should enter.
'Si Fan' I repeated; and in turn found myself admitted.
The Chinaman closed and bolted the door. I discovered myself to be standing in a little arbour within a gateway. The shadow of the wall lay like a pall of velvet about us, but beyond I saw a garden and moon-lighted pavilions, and beyond again a courtyard set with orange trees. The house embraced this courtyard, and from mushrabiyeh windows dim lights shone out. But there was no movement anywhere. No servants were visible, other than the tall, emaciated Chinaman who had admitted us. I clutched my monkish robe, recovering some assurance from the presence of the repeater which I carried in my belt.
Extending a skeleton hand, the keeper of the gate indicated that we were to cross the garden and enter the house.
I had taken my share of ordinary chances, having lived anything but a sheltered life. Yet it occurred to me, as I stood there beside Nayland Smith, looking in the direction of the tree-shaded courtyard, that this was the wildest venture upon which I had ever been launched.
Our wits alone could save us!
In the first place it seemed to me that survival hung upon one slender point: Were the Mongolian monks known personally to anyone in the house? If so, we were lost! The several groups assembled in the cafe at el- Kharga obviously had been strangers one to another... but there might be--must be-- some central figure to whom they were all known.
We had searched the Tibetans for creden- tials but had found none. And now, suddenly, shockingly, I remembered something!
'Sir Denis!' We had begun to pace slowly across the garden. 'We're trapped! '
'Why?' he jerked.
'The elder of those monks wore a queer silver ring on his index finger, set with a big emerald. I noticed it as I helped to tie him up.'
Nayland Smith shot his hand out from a loose sleeve of the camel-hair garment. I saw the emerald glittering on his index finger! 'His evidence of identity?' he suggested. 'It was!'
We crossed the courtyard in the direction of an open doorway. I saw a lobby lighted by one perforated brass lamp swung on chains. There were doors right and left--both of them closed.
On a divan a very old Chinaman was seated. He wore a little cap surmounted by a coral ball. His wizened face was rendered owlish in appearance by the presence of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. A fur-trimmed robe enveloped his frail body, his ethereal hands relaxed upon his crossed knees. I saw that on an index finger he wore just such a ring as that which Nayland Smith had taken from the Tibetan monk! A silver snuff-bowl rested upon the divan beside him; and as we entered:
'Si Fan,' he said in a high, thin voice.
Nayland Smith and I went through the prescribed formula. Whereupon, the Chinaman spoke rapidly to my companion in what I presumed to be Chinese, and extended his right hand.
Nayland Smith stooped, raised the emaci- ated hand, and with the ring upon its index finger touched his brow, his lips his breast.
Again, the high, sibilant voice spoke; and Sir Denis extended his own hand. The ritual was repeated--this time, by our singular host. To my intense relief, I realized that I had been taken for granted. Evidently I was a mere travelling companion of my more distinguished compatriot.
Raising a little hammer, the aged Chinaman stuck a gong which stood beside him. He struck it twice. The door right of the divan opened.
He inclined his head, we both acknowl- edged the salute and, Smith leading, walked in at the open doorway. As we crossed the threshold he fell back a step, and:
'The Mandarin Ki Ming!' came a whisper close to my ear. 'Pray heaven he hasn't recognized me!'
I found myself in a large salon, scantily furnished as was the lobby. At the further end, approached by three carpeted steps were very handsome double doors, beautifully carved and embellished with semi-precious stones in the patient Arab manner. The place was lighted by a sort of chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling: it consisted of seven lamps. There were divans around the walls and two deep recesses backed by fine, carved windows.
Seven black cushions placed upon silk- covered mattresses were set in a crescent upon the polished floor, the points of the crescent toward the double doors. Beside each mattress stood a little coffee table.
Four of the mattresses were occupied and in the following order: That on the left point of the crescent by the tall, distinguished-looking man whom Nayland Smith had surmised to be a Turk; the second by two of the Burmans I had seen in the cafe. Then, centre of the crescent, were three vacant places. The next mattress was occupied by the Afghans, and that on the right horn of the crescent by the appalling thugs.
Four of the Seven were present. We, fifth to arrive had been announced by only two strokes of the gong.
Which of those three vacant places were we intended to occupy?
This difficulty was solved by the hitherto invisible custodian of the door--who now proved to be a gigantic Negro. Bowing rever- ently, he led us to the mattress adjoining that of the Afghans. As we crossed, the four groups assembled stood up unanimously, the leaders each raising a right hand upon which I saw the flash of emeralds.
'Si Fan!' they cried together.
'Si Fan.' Nayland Smith replied. We took our seats.
2
One of the most dreadful-looking old men I had ever seen in my life entered to the sound of three gongs. As cries of 'Si Fan' died away, he took his place on the mattress one removed from ours. He was a Syrian, I thought, and of incalculable age. His fiercely hooked nose had a blade-like edge and from under tufted white brows hawk eyes surveyed the assembly with an imperious but murderous regard.
